


Columbiformes: Pigeons and Doves

by WildnessBecomesYou



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Bird Science, Birds, I had an idea and it wouldn't leave me alone, M/M, Sort of? - Freeform, crowley has thoughts, they're both drunk, this is really mostly implied relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22129249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: The rock dove and the pigeon are not so different; the rock dove just got to be the one that delivered the olive branch.Crowley has some musings.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Columbiformes: Pigeons and Doves

**Author's Note:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK, BACK AGAIN? 
> 
> It's me! I've got one day left of break before work starts back up and I'm dragging myself out of a depressive episode by WRITING FIC! 
> 
> I'm gonna be realistic, I probably won't be able to post much again until Spring Break. Maybe my birthday weekend. Dunno. But! Here's an idea I had that wouldn't leave me alone. Hopefully I didn't get the sciency bits at the beginning wrong! 
> 
> Please enjoy, leave a comment and/or kudos if it makes you smile :)

Columba livia: the rock dove.

Columba livia: the common pigeon.

You see, there is no scientific difference between these two birds. Scientists have not deigned it appropriate to separate out the two. They come from the family Columbidae, the order Columbiformes, phylum Chordata, kingdom Animalia. 

The rock dove and the common pigeon are the same bird in different colors. 

Watch the streets of any major city and you’ll see this. You may even spot the perfect blending of the two birds, a gray-speckled white bird with red eyes and pink feet. 

And yet, the pigeon is scorned. The dove is adored. The former is considered dirty, gross, a harbinger of disease and uncleanliness; the latter pure, clean, holy, a wonderful sign of love and peace. 

Should the same birds not be considered with the same graces? 

Demons and angels are very much the same. The demon was once an angel; they are made of the same stock. Yes, one now has horns instead of a halo, or jet black wings to replace fluffy white ones. But they are the same kind of being, with the same abilities, same base instincts. 

What counts, in this case—besides their coloring— is their intent. 

How does the demon interact with the world? Has he been beaten down, made a fool, scraping the bottom of the barrel for the last disgusting dregs of the energy humans will give them? For many, the answer is yes. 

(Not for one, but we’ll come back to him.)

How does the angel? Well, the angel refuses to interact with the human world. The angel cannot be sullied; they are holy, pure, a temple of all things good. They present miracles, float over the humans like guardians of light. 

(All but one. Shall we examine him?) 

And yet, the angel and demon have the same sort of impact. Humans are stubborn, and wont to do whatever it is they choose, and are therefore not likely to truly listen to either side. A human here or a human there can be influenced— but on the grand scheme of things? No impact. 

So why, then, is the angel regarded with such piety and exaltation, and the demon with such hatred and pity? 

That’s what Crowley has been considering for the past three glasses of wine. He started thinking about these things after the second bottle. He glances over to the angel Aziraphale, happily humming as he read through his most recent pick. 

_Fucking Oscar Wilde._

If you’ve not yet guessed, Crowley (Anthony J, just J, really) is our dear pigeon. Demon. Unlike the other demons, Crowley has taken his beatings and risen again, whether the fists came from God, other demons, or the humans. He has not allowed himself to be the fool (only to feel foolish around his Angel); he thrives on the chaos of humanity, but doesn’t feel beneath them. 

“Did you say something, my dear?” Aziraphale slurred. It jolts him out of his stupor and he fumbles with words for a moment. 

“Nggghh. Pigeons. N’doves.” 

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side and smiles indulgently. “Doves?” 

“N’pigeons.” 

Aziraphale nods and closes his book. He doesn’t mark his page, Crowley notices, but mostly because the angel never does. The book goes to the side and the angel’s hands cross over his lap while he leans back in his cushy chair. 

Crowley reflects (mostly silently, he hopes) that _this_ angel is very different. This angel was tasked with protecting those that inhabited the garden, and did so to the point of giving away his own sword; he continued to protect them, climbing into their world and shining his love upon them. His once only-muscle frame had been cushioned by the delights the humans created and the angel indulged in. His miracles were used liberally, barely hidden from the public. 

“They’re th’same,” Crowley said, gesturing between them loosely. 

Aziraphale nods. “The same species, yes.”

“So why do they get called different things?” 

The angel smiles and sinks back further, his shoulders relaxing. “Because the Judeo-Christian religion has associated white things with positivity and cleanliness, and grays and blacks with dirtiness and evil. Cleanliness is Godliness or—“ he hiccups. “Something.” 

Crowley huffs. “Z’bullshit.” 

“Misguided, certainly,” Aziraphale agrees, refills his wine. “I find you rather quite lovely.” 

Crowley blushes. “Shut up. Wasn’t a metaphor.” 

Aziraphale smiles and takes a sip. He stands on slightly wobbly feet, moves over to his husband, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Of course not, dear. I meant pigeons. I find _pigeons_ quite lovely.” 

Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, into Aziraphale’s warmth. Aziraphale holds his face close, presses his forehead against Crowley’s temple. He still wobbles a little, but his wine does not spill. A demonic miracle, one might say. 

“Doves r’pretty,” Crowley says. He feels it’s lame, but he can also feel Aziraphale grin. 

“Thank you, dear.” He kisses Crowley’s cheek again. “I’m peckish. Fancy some dinner?” 

Crowley coos like a pigeon as he rises to follow. 

Or a dove. 

It doesn’t make much of a difference— it’s the same sound.


End file.
